


beg, borrow, steal

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tastes sharp and rich, like some exotic spice, something from some sun-baked kingdom to the east. It’s a strange match to her pale beauty and her icy demeanor. Jon is dizzy with it, his head turned upside down, and he licks over her lips and teeth and tongue, looking for the source of that spice, trying to taste every bit of her to know where it hides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beg, borrow, steal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme prompt: Jon/Val - kneel before the queen. Very vague spoilers through ADwD.

Jon blames the drink. He’s never been much for wine or ale. The wine at the lower tables in Winterfell had always been thin and acidic, little more than vinegar. He’d drunk to keep warm here on the Wall, but he’d never developed much of a taste for the harder stuff. He has cause to regret it now. An hour in Val’s chambers, a bare skin-full between the two of them of some spirit she’d said was favored in the farthest northern reaches, and he’s light-headed and hiccupping on the stuff, staring at her mouth as if to claim it for his own before ever tasting it. He’d only come to give her company in her tower. He hadn’t come to kiss her.

Somehow, now that his mouth has found its way to hers by methods unclear, Jon doesn’t really care if this is more than giving her company.

She tastes sharp and rich, like some exotic spice, something from some sun-baked kingdom to the east. It’s a strange match to her pale beauty and her icy demeanor. Jon is dizzy with it, his head turned upside down, and he licks over her lips and teeth and tongue, looking for the source of that spice, trying to taste every bit of her to know where it hides.

“You would steal me?” she asks when she pulls away, palming him through his breeches and wrenching such a whimper from his throat that he would be embarrassed if he had any sense.

“You know that I can’t,” he gasps, and there’s more than a little regret in his voice. Val is a fine woman. She would be a fine wife, strong and wild and vital. Jon thinks he could be happy with her. 

“No,” she says, regarding him with a speculative look, with a quirk in her mouth that Jon has come to recognize as trouble. “I could be a queen, and what are you? A crow, nothing more.” It’s strange that such challenging, mocking words should stir Jon’s blood even more, that he should grow only harder under the fired ice of her stare.

“A great queen, terrible and beautiful,” he says, suddenly wanting little more than to taste her everywhere, to push his tongue into shadowed places and feel her shake around him. As if reading his mind, she flattens her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down to sink gracelessly to his knees before her. She slowly hitches her skirts in both hands to show long, agile legs encased in rough woolen hose. She’s bare above her hose, no smallclothes to hide her from Jon, no barrier between her and his fingers that want so desperately to touch her, his tongue that wants only to be buried inside her for all the time that’s left in the world. Maybe it’s the drink that has him thinking he can smell her even from here, but he doesn’t care, he just breathes deep and feels his blood throb in response.

“Kneel before your queen, Jon Snow,” she says, and he knows all she doesn’t say, hears the suggestion in her voice and knows he is already lost.

The leather cords binding her hose come undone easily at his tug. Slowly, with more patience than he’d thought he could manage, he rolls the wool down her thighs, over the delicate shells of her knees, her narrow calves and ankles. He works his mouth from her knee up the inside of her thigh, licking a line up the fine, thin skin until he can lick into her cunt and taste her on his tongue. She shudders, her legs tremble, but she doesn’t fall. He feels one hand fist in his hair while she holds her skirts with the other, feels the scrape of her nails on his scalp as she pulls him closer, pulls his face into her cunt like she wants it as much as he does. The idea is intoxicating. 

Part of him wants to drop his hands to his cock, to take away the ache spreading through his gut at the taste of her, at the sound of her breathing, low and ragged and laced with only the ghost of a moan. But that would mean taking his hands from the back of her thighs, and he won’t do that, not when he’s desperate to get her closer, to get his tongue deeper, to suck at her until she screams his name and can no longer stand. Twice she finds release, shaking and gripping his hair and fluttering against his tongue, twice he sucks at her gently, carefully, letting her fall back before driving her up again, needing to taste her response once more, to push her past the control she always keeps. The third time she doesn’t quite scream, she doesn’t quite break, but she gives a high whimpering moan and pushes his face away as her knees tremble and sink, allowing him to guide her to the floor with his hands, to hold her as she kneels with him and quivers like a newborn foal in snow.

It’s she who kisses him with the taste of her still on his lips. It makes his stomach give a sick-sweet lurch, and he kisses her back, far more tenderly than before.

He’s still hard when she pulls away and rises to her feet, standing away from him and looking at him with her normal, cool expression, so that he wonders if it was the drink that made him imagine all of it. But then she licks her lower lip, and her eyes burn a pale fire.

“I enjoyed your visit,” she says, laughter just under the words. Jon’s mouth twitches, he has to stem his own laughter.

“As did I.”

“Do come back to see me soon, please,” she says, and there’s real emotion under the teasing lilt, a genuine loneliness that Jon thinks is why he’s always come every other time. Why he’ll come back again.

“I will,” he promises. It feels too exposed, too vulnerable, so he puts a light tone back in his voice, wondering at this person he’s become in her company. It's the spirits. That's what Jon plans to tell himself when he's filled with regret. It's also the spirits when he says, “Do queens ever take the knee themselves?”, his words deliberate, his voice too husky. Her eyes drop to the front of his breeches, where his cock strains the cloth so obviously that he knows he’ll not be able to make the walk from her chambers for quite a while, will have to hide in the stair to her tower and think of unappealing things until the memory of her cunt is gone from his mind. She smiles at him, the barest twitch of her lips that tells him she’s amused. That she’s considering it.

“We’ll see, Jon Snow,” she says. “We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Continued in **[snowmelt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/398430)**


End file.
